


Beyond the Speed of Light

by electricalgwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2016_SPN_Reversebang, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, Science Fiction, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9997526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen
Summary: Sam is a fugitive wanted by the state. Dean is a disillusioned starship captain who transports supplies off world between outposts/cities. Sam evades capture by stowing away on board the starship. They both have secrets, and it turns out their secrets might just overlap...





	

Written for [SPN Reverse Bang](http://spn_reversebang.livejournal.com), for this amazing art prompt by [BlondeBitz](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com). Her artwork is entitled "Fate and the Paradox Beyond," with the description, "Sam is a fugitive wanted by the state. Dean is a disillusioned Starship captain who transports supplies off world between outposts/cities. Sam evades capture by stowing away on board the starship." I absolutely loved the piece, and I'm super grateful to [MorganOConner](http://morganoconner.livejournal.com) who proxy-claimed it for me. Unfortunately, I cannot sufficiently apologize to BlondeBitz for being a terrible collaborator, but she was extremely forbearing, and even made a second gorgeous piece! Be sure to give her lots of love. I also need to apologize to her for the story emerging as Dean&Sam rather than Dean/Sam.

The story is also significantly inspired by Firefly, although it is not a crossover. There were just so many good correlations: Sam/River, Dean/Mal, and of course Crowley/Badger...

 

 

The viewscreen darkens, atmosphere thinning and fading to black, as Baby soars upwards. Dean guides her with the tiniest of adjustments, her controls so familiar that his hands could fly her in his sleep. It's as much for his benefit as hers – more, really, truth be told. She doesn't need him for a routine launch like this, but he never puts her on auto-pilot if he can help it. Flying her grounds him, always has. He takes a deep breath, tries to shrug off the unease riding his shoulders.

Another dead end.

At least the job had worked out. More or less. He hadn't been shot. Might even make some money off this run. The local beer had been decent, and he'd gotten laid by a pro. For free. Without having his pants stolen.

But nobody had admitted to knowing a John Winchester.

He's running out of leads and ideas. If he keeps hunting, all Dean's likely to get is trouble.

He might have gotten some already. There's something odd about the feel of the ship.

He scans the dials and gauges. Nothing reads out of the ordinary. He listens to the pitch of Baby's engine, as familiar as his own pulse: normal. Yet he's still got a sense of unease. Maybe he just needs to get some sleep.

Maybe it's time to give up.

_Keep flying._

He stares out into the black and knows he won't stop.

 

 

Sam jolts wide awake from a dead sleep, sitting bolt upright and slamming his head into the roof of the cramped underdeck cargo compartment.

He bites back the expletives that want to escape. The noise his head made will hopefully be lost in the general noise of the ship, but cargo doesn't generally swear. Unless maybe you were smuggling androids. But they probably wouldn't be programmed with that kind of language. And without pain, or emotions, what would they have to swear about?

Thinking nonsense like this helps. His breathing slows, his heart stops hammering in his chest. Sweat is still trickling down the back of his neck, but it's cooling now. He tugs at the neck of his jacket; it feels uncomfortably tight. He doesn't hear any footsteps or any sounds of alarm on the ship. There must not have been anyone near, thank goodness.

The dreams have gotten worse. More vivid, more frequent, and more violent. This one, though – this one was different. Usually they're variations on the same nightmare: he's alone, abandoned, waiting for the screams and the smell of burning and a headache that steadily builds until he blacks out.

The rest of the rebels are probably dead. Thinking about it makes his stomach twist. He should have been there. Would have been there, if it weren't for –

If it weren't for the hallucination. The one in which he'd seen her push back a hanging tarpaulin and walk down that side alley he'd never realized existed. And so, when he'd encountered that turn in the winding streets of New Heraklion, when he recognized the buildings and the tarpaulin and pushed it aside to see the alley behind, he followed it. Looking for someone he's never met and couldn't possibly expect to find.

Didn't find. But he spent half an hour wandering, looking, asking. And so got back to the warehouse district half an hour later than he'd planned, by which time the hideout was a pile of rubble, the perimeter was barricaded, and the Feds were dragging bodies out of the smoke.

Ice settles into him then, his stomach, his bones, because this is the bit he hadn't truly allowed himself to think about until now.

He'd dreamed that.

He'd seen them die. The scene replayed over and over, in nightmares. What he'd seen, what he'd imagined – it had been real.

It can't have been real.

It's a coincidence. They were all stressed, sleep-deprived, and hunted by the Feds. Of course failure and capture would have been in their nightmares. And sure, the scene had been identical to his dream, but he often came at the hideout from that direction. It made sense that he'd imagine it from that angle.

And the vision that delayed him, the vision of the woman in the alley – he must have seen the opening to the tiny side street before, without consciously registering it, and his malfunctioning brain grabbed it at random and stuck it into his hallucination. Brains are funny things, even in normal people, and his is most definitely not normal. Normal people have a life, friends, connections. A childhood they can remember.

He can almost make himself believe his explanation, but – where does she come from? He's sure he's never seen her before. Except in dreams.

Dreams that start in peace, and end in fire.

Seeing her today had saved his life.

He focuses on his breathing, steadies it. The noise of the ship's engines has settled into a steady hum. They're on their way. He just has to keep his head down, stay hidden until the ship lands. Wherever it lands. He'd taken a gamble, stowing away on an ancient model like this, but it wasn't like he had a lot of options, and he's willing to bet that her owner knows a thing or two about staying out of the way of the Feds. These old Impalas, with their maneuverability and extensive cargo space, were said to be popular with smugglers – although they're becoming less common these days, it's getting harder to find parts.

The hum is surprisingly soothing. He means to tally up his supplies, make a plan for rationing his protein bars, but he's asleep before he knows it and if he dreams, he doesn't remember.

 

 

 

If this had been a normal ship, Sam probably wouldn't have gotten caught.

Then again, if this had been a normal ship, he wouldn't have picked it to stow away on. He'd been expecting it to be one with a relaxed attitude about the line between legal and illegal trading, and a healthy dislike of the Feds. It's taken an odd flight pattern, which seems to confirm his suspicions: it's unusual to jump several times without landing, unless you're trying to lose pursuers, or meet up with other ships to transfer goods while unobserved in the vastness of space.

As far as he can tell, the ship is crewed by just one guy. He hadn't expected that, but it should have made things easier. Only one person to avoid when sneaking around in the ship's artificial night-time hours.

Unfortunately, the one guy apparently sometimes decides to sleep rolled up in a quilt in the darkened engine room. Sam trips over him on the way back from the toilet.

The guy also apparently sleeps with a gun. And has very quick reflexes. Sam's flat on his back with the muzzle of the gun to his temple before he's even fully registered the disaster that's occurred.

“I'm sorry!” he blurts out. “Please don't shoot. I'm unarmed. I just needed a ride. I was going to get off at the next stop, I swear!”

“This is my ship,” the man says. Sam's eyes are well adjusted to the dark, but from where he's lying, the man's face is shadowed. He can't make out any features beyond short, spiky hair and muscled arms, backlit by the faint glow of the exit light above the door. “Not a fucking transport. You're trespassing.”

“I know.”

“I'd be within my rights to put you out the airlock right now.”

“I know.” Sam takes shallow breaths, trying to keep as still as possible.

“Were you planning to take her?”

“What?”

“My Baby.” Sam can hear the capital B. “Were you going to steal her?”

“No!” Sam starts to shake his head instinctively, feels the cold pressure at his temple increase, and freezes. “I wouldn't even know how to fly her! I needed to hitch a lift is all. I had to get off-planet in a hurry.” He can hear the desperate intensity in his voice, tries to soften and tone it down, not sound crazy or scary. “I'm sorry. I didn't have anywhere left to go, anyone to turn to. I had to get out of there, and your ship looked...”

He hesitates. Probably not a great idea to accuse the smuggler holding a gun on him of being, well, a smuggler.

“Looked like it gets around,” he finishes. “I figured I'd slip out the next place you landed, hop another ship, get some distance. I don't mean to cause you any trouble.”

“Why'd you have to get out so fast?”

The man leans back slightly, angling and shifting position to better pin Sam's legs, although the gun remains steady against his skull. The dim light from the door falls on his face and front now, and Sam can make out more details. The man is around his own age, maybe a little older, with light brown hair and a strong jaw darkened by a couple of days worth of stubble. Sam drops his eyes quickly away from the man's face, not wanting to seem challenging, and his gaze is caught by a slight flicker against the man's chest. A small, odd-shaped metal amulet.

Against all reason, an unexpected, preternatural calm washes over him. He is suddenly certain that this man isn't going to kill him.

He risks the truth. “The Feds want me. They've been chasing me for weeks.”

A hissed intake of breath. The gun remains steady. “And you decided to bring them down on me.”

He closes his eyes briefly and nods an apology. “I took that risk. Sorry.” His throat tightens as he thinks of the rebels who'd taken him in and paid the price for sheltering him. He can't let that happen here. “I just...I was out of options.”

There's a long pause.

“You and me both,” the guy mutters.

Sam's not sure what to say to that. He figures continued silence and stillness is the best option; it's worked so far, inasmuch as he's not dead.

The pressure against his temple is suddenly gone. He starts to breathe a sigh of relief, then lets out an undignified 'oomph' as the man climbs off him by levering a knee into his stomach. He gasps for breath as footsteps move away, and the overhead light comes on.

“Stand up,” the guy orders. “Hands on the wall.”

Sam complies. Hands pat him down, checking for weapons.

“Where's your stuff?”

“Forward cargo bay,” Sam admits.

“Turn around.” The man gestures towards the door with the gun. “You first.”

Sam stands face to the wall as the man retrieves and rifles through Sam's extremely meager stash: a few more days worth of food, a water purifier, and a couple of pairs of clean socks.

“This it?”

“Yeah.”

“No weapon? No ID?”

“Don't have any.”

“And no money.” He sighs. “You know, I do take paying passengers. They get an actual bunk.”

“People pay to ride in this thing?” Sam says, before his brain can catch up to his mouth.

He closes his eyes and flinches, expecting to be shot any minute. Instead, he hears laughter.

“You've got balls, I'll give you that.”

“I'm sorry,” he says again hurriedly. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry. It's a great ship and I'm very happy you're not shooting me and I'm really sorry.”

“I'm not gonna shoot you.” The guy sighs. “You can turn around, and quit with the hands up.”

Sam does. He slouches his shoulders, trying to look inoffensive.

“But I want to know why the Feds are chasing you.”

Yeah, he'd figured that little detail might come up. He just wishes he had a good answer.

“I escaped.”

“Escaped.” The guy frowns. “What, from jail?”

Sam bites his lip. “I think so. Maybe.”

The guy's expression darkens further. “I don't have time for games. Answer me honestly or get the fuck off my ship.”

“I – ” Sam closes his eyes. He might get shot here after all, and he'd rather not see it coming. “I'm sorry, I don't know exactly. My memory's not good.” That's an understatement. “I don't remember doing anything wrong, but I was locked up somewhere. I think I'd been there a pretty long time. There was a large white room.” There had been blood on its tiles. “And small ones, with steel doors, and bars. Lots of them. I could hear screams.” Only some had been his.

“There were others. I have – some memories. Not good ones. Needles, and pain. I saw – one time that I was taken to the white room, there was already someone there. A woman, just a girl really. They put a probe in her skull and she was screaming.”

His voice rises in frustration. “But I can't be sure. Of anything. I can't remember.”

He realizes he's running the fingers of one hand through his hair, searching out the indentations. “They did something to me. There are scars on my head, and I don't have any reliable memories from more than a few months back.” Even the recent ones might be unreliable; how could he tell? “I know I escaped, but I can't even tell you how. I remember unlocking doors, but I can't remember how I got the codes. There were alarms that didn't go off, and I don't remember how I managed that. If someone helped me, I don't remember them. Nobody was with me when I cut through the outer perimeter fence and ran. I remember running. I hid on a ship – like yours, but I managed not to get caught – and I've been on a few ships since then. I thought I'd found a safe place to hide on Thaetis, and then...” He gulps. “It wasn't safe anymore.”

He drops his hand to his side. “I'm sorry. I know it's a crazy story.”

Silence. Eventually, he opens his eyes. Bright green ones are staring at him. Assessing.

“Yeah,” the guys says finally. “It is. But Baby's no stranger to crazy. And she likes you.”

The weird thing is, Sam thinks he can feel that too. Baby doesn't object to him being on board.

“Grab your stuff,” the guy says. “If you can't pay, I expect you to help out around the place. And I figure you'll be more useful if you get some decent sleep.”

Sam stammers thanks, hastily repacking his stuff and slinging it over his shoulder. He follows the guy into the living quarters past the small kitchen.

“Spare bunk there. I'll wake you for breakfast duty. I like my coffee strong.” The guy frowns. “Actually, hold on. Do you even know how to cook?”

Sam manages a weak grin. “Yeah. I've done that recently. I won't set anything on fire.”

“Awesome. Good night.”

“Wait!” Sam says, as the guy moves off down the corridor towards, presumably, his own bunk. “I – thank you! I don't even know your name.”

“I'm Dean.” The guy – Dean – frowns. “Do I want to know yours?”

“Sam.”

“Sam what?”

“I don't know,” Sam says apologetically. “That's all I've got. Just Sam.”

“Convenient,” Dean mutters.

 

 

Dean hadn't thought he'd actually sleep, despite going out again after brushing his teeth to jam Sam's door from the outside, as well as locking his own. He's surprised to wake up eight hours later, feeling more rested than he has in months.

It's weird. Even Baby feels calm.

Sam's already awake when Dean bangs on the door. He doesn't mention Dean locking him in.

Dean only briefly considers turning Sam in for a reward. But it turns out he's actually a good cook. Besides, when he checks, there isn't one. There's no mention of a Sam, with or without a last name, or any fugitives of any name that match Sam's description.

“This is weird.” Dean scans the broadwaves, frowning. “How come there's no alert? Nothing on the news. Zip on the bounty lists. If the Feds are chasing you, they're doing it quietly.”

“They were definitely chasing me.” Sam refills Dean's coffee. “Maybe they want it kept secret?”

“Why?”

Sam shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe they don't want to admit they've had a prison break? But they'd have got me for sure on Thaetis if they'd circulated my picture. Trader ships like yours don't land in remote areas. I had to stick around the spaceport.”

His mouth twists wryly. “And I'm kind of easy to spot in a crowd.”

Dean acknowledges this with a nod.

“By the way.” Sam ducks his head. “I'm sorry for stepping on you last night.”

Dean snorts. “I bet you are.”

“No, I mean – ” Sam reddens. “Well, yeah. But I mean, are you okay?”

“I'll live.”

“Why were you sleeping down there, anyway?”

“Because I was tired. It takes a fair bit of time to keep the engines tuned the way I like 'em. Sometimes I nap in there. Didn't expect to be stepped on in the middle of the night.” He mock glares at Sam. “Since there wasn't supposed to be anyone else on board.”

“You never fly with anyone?”

Dean's jaw clenches ever so slightly, belying the light tone of his reply. “Nah. Like it solo.”

“What if something goes wrong? You get sick, or hurt?”

Dean shrugs. “I get better. Baby can look after herself for a few days.”

Sam smiles. “I bet you wouldn't trust anyone else to fly her.”

“Don't trust anyone, period,” Dean says. It's true, but he hadn't actually meant to say it. It begs the question of why he hasn't kicked Sam off the ship, and since he's not sure he knows the answer, he ignores it and moves on.

“So,” he says. “Where do you want to go?”

Sam stares blankly at him. “I – wherever you're going?”

“Don't have a fixed destination in mind,” Dean says. “Though, probably outer planets. Further away from the Feds, which I figure should suit you just fine.”

“What about the cargo?”

“That you were sleeping on?” Dean arches an eyebrow. “Most of the crates are empty. I've got some basic stuff I could trade on nearly any world. Don't have a bigger job right now. I didn't manage to land one on Thaetis.”

Sam frowns. “So...where have we been? With all the jumps?”

“None of your business.” Chasing a ghost.

Sam ducks his head. “Sorry.”

There's a ping. Incoming hail.

“Shit,” Dean says, standing. He races to the bridge, Sam right behind him. The comm is flashing and the ship in their viewscreen is...a Fed cruiser.

Which he might have noticed if he'd been up here as usual, instead of lingering over coffee and muffins and a remarkably good facsimile of scrambled eggs.

“Go,” he snaps, and Sam's gone.

He takes a deep breath and schools his features, then flicks the answer button. “Hello, officer.”

“Identification.” To the point.

He puts his palm on the scanner and transmits his credentials.

“Dean Winchester. Courier and cargo shipping.” The officer raises an eyebrow. “Three counts of failing to declare goods at customs, I see.”

Dean keeps a politely neutral expression. Those had been several years ago, before he smartened up. He hasn't been caught in ages.

“Your flight path is unusual. What are you carrying?”

Dean's stomach sinks. They've been tracking him? They must really be deep-searching this sector. Fuck it, the last thing he'd wanted was to draw attention to himself.

“Nothing,” he admits. “Just a few medkits and ration packs. Stuff the outer worlds'll pay for. I don't have any real cargo on board.”

It's a bit suspicious for him to be making a run – any run – without a payload, but they might buy a story of bad luck. He can't afford to lie about cargo. They might want to come on board and inspect things.

“I've been having some trouble with the ship.” His mind races, remembering his course changes, and calculating believable destinations. He keeps his tone polite, but lets a little bit of worry leak through. Too much bravado is a mistake; the Feds expect people to be at least a little nervous when they're stopped. By their logic, if you're trying too hard, you've got something to hide. Plus, out here, your ship's all you've got: if she goes down, you're likely dead.

“Was headed for Cesnora to try and get a shipping job, but the port engine's acting up. I figured I had a better chance of making it to Achilles before she crapped out completely, so I changed course. Been taking smaller jumps to baby her along.”

Sad thing is, it might as well be the truth. The port compression coil's needed replacing for months, but either he hasn't had the credits, or the parts shops on the backwater planets he's been frequenting haven't had one in stock. The one on Meobos had been woefully underequipped, and the guy running it was either incompetent or a swindler. He'd tried to sell Dean a coil that belonged in a Capissen, for god's sake.

The truth makes the best lie, though. They're scanning him for sure, and the energy fluctuations in Baby's output will be visible. She can hold out another few months with the modifications Dean's made, could probably even outrun this cruiser, but they won't know that.

The officer glances over his subordinate's shoulder at the scanner and curls his lip in a sneer. “I see. Better take it slow. There's enough space junk out here without you adding to it.”

Dean grits his teeth and forces a smile. “Yes sir.”

“You should be able to make it there in three days, though.” Dean swallows. Maybe he's just being paranoid, but it feels like a threat: we'll be expecting you. If you don't show up – well, that's mighty suspicious.

“By the way,” the man says, offhandedly. Too casual: Dean's hackles go up. “Are you carrying any passengers? I'd hate to see them stranded.”

“No, sir.” Dean shakes his head regretfully. “Not too many people willing to take a chance on this old ship.”

“I trust you're being honest with me?” The officer narrows his eyes. “We're looking for a man last seen on Thaetis. I imagine he would have been willing to pay handsomely for passage, and for your silence. Should you have taken such a deal, I can assure you, it is not worth your while. He is an escaped criminal, and a very dangerous one.”

“Can't fault you for asking,” Dean says. “I could have used that kind of money. Nobody offered me any, though.”

He holds the officer's gaze through the link. The other man is the first to blink and turn away.

“Good luck with your engine.”

 

 

“Very dangerous,” Dean says, eyeing Sam, who's punching down bread dough.

Sam punches less hard.

“They must be doing an all-out search. The odds of running into a cruiser in this patch of nothing are pretty slim. It's not even a typical smuggling route.”

“I told you they were looking for me.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, but they are _really_ looking. Also, they said you'd probably offer to pay me a lot of money.”

“That proves they don't know what they're talking about,” Sam says. He tears off a chunk of dough and starts shaping it into a loaf. “I'd pay you if I could. I don't have any money. And I'm not dangerous.”

“How do you know?” Dean counters. “You don't know what you did to get put in there.”

Sam hasn't got a good answer to that.

“Okay,” Dean says. “I don't like flying blind here. New plan. I'm calling Bobby.”

“What?” Sam says, panicked. “You said it yourself, don't trust anyone! Who's Bobby?”

“Bobby's not anyone.” Dean steals a small piece of dough. “He's got eyes and ears all over the net. Trades in information. If there's anyone outside the Feds who can tell you what's going on, it's him.”

“How do you know he won't sell us out?” Sam counters.

“He won't,” Dean replies curtly. “Used to work with my dad.”

“Your dad,” Sam says, and his voice echoes weirdly in his ears.

 _Oh no,_ he thinks. He sinks his fingers into the dough, trying to anchor himself in the sensation, in the here and now. For a moment, he thinks it's working, but then Dean turns and gestures angrily at the man in the doorway who wasn't there a moment ago, and Sam can't close his eyes and ears against their fierce argument.

He comes back to himself with Dean gripping both his shoulders and shaking him. He's sitting on the kitchen floor, a mangled lump of bread dough in his lap.

“Sam!”

“He left,” Sam says weakly. “You had a fight, and he left.”

Dean lets go. He pulls back and stares at Sam. Sam flinches. He's seen that expression on other faces before, and it usually ends badly.

“That's the other way my brain's fucked up. I get visions. See things. I can't explain it.” He's shivering, although the kitchen is warm from the heat of the oven.

“Visions?”

He nods. “Mostly of the past.”

“Memories,” Dean says. “Bits and pieces of the stuff you say you don't remember. Your brain's screwed up and misfiring.” He's pale. Freckles stand out sharply on the bridge of his nose.

“I used to think so. But lately, I see stuff about people I never met. Like your dad.” Sam swallows. “And I think, maybe, some of them are things in the future. I dreamed what happened on Thaetis for a week before it happened.”

“That's impossible.”

“I know.”

“But you – ” Dean is evidently at a loss for words. “ _How?_ How did you know? About my dad?”

“I saw it.” It's an impossible answer, but it's the truth. “You were arguing about his crazy conspiracy theories. He left, and you – ” He doesn't want to say it.

“I told him that if he went missing, I wouldn't come after him,” Dean says heavily. He sits back against the cupboard. There's a smear of flour on his cheek.

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. “But you're looking for him now.” He hadn't known that until it came out of his mouth.

“I didn't,” Dean says. “Not for a long time.” There's an agony of self-loathing in his voice.

Sam doesn't know what to say. Usually, at this point, the loathing is directed at him.

“I don't know what happened to him. A year or so later, the Feds came looking for him. They said he was a criminal, and they wanted me to lead them to him, but I could honestly say I hadn't had any contact. They kept a close eye on me for a couple of years, and I used to get extra questioning at checkpoints, but eventually they pretty much accepted I was never going to hear from him again. So did I.”

Sam picks up the dough again and starts smoothing it back into shape.

“And I didn't. Not a thing. I thought maybe he was dead. Until a couple of months ago. I got a scrambled broadwave, direct to Baby's system. A long string of numbers that didn't make any sense, until I figured out how to parse it. There were dates – my birthday, my dad's, my mom's – and Baby's ID number. Stuff he would have known. And in between them, there were coordinates.”

“Coordinates?” Sam's head is starting to pound.

“For a planet. I went there. Thought maybe I'd find him. Nothing happened. It's a backwater suburb. Hardly even a military presence, just a few guys patrolling the spaceport.”

“What – ” His vision is blurring again. He tenses, waiting to fall into another vision, but it doesn't come. “What planet?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don't know.” Sam drops the dough again and clutches his head. “What planet?”

“Kethora.” Dean frowns. “Are you okay?”

“That's where I escaped,” Sam says, and blacks out.

 

 

Dean skips some of the details in his call to Bobby.

It's not that he doesn't trust Bobby. He'd trust him with his life – has, more than once. He knows Bobby disapproves of how things ended with John, but Bobby's always had his back regardless.

To be honest, he doesn't want to deal with Bobby repeatedly calling him an idiot. He's aware he's being stupid; he doesn't need it reinforced.

“Got some trouble.”

“I figured, or you wouldn't be calling,” Bobby says dryly. “What's up?”

“Picked up a guy on Thaetis. He was hiding out with a rebel group there. The rest of them got destroyed, and the Feds are hunting him.”

Bobby frowns. “I heard about that. Rumor is, he's got information on something the Feds don't want made public.”

“Dunno about that. He's a few cards short of a deck. Not the most reliable source.”

“Do the Feds know you have him?”

“Pretty sure they don't,” Dean says, “or I'd be locked up with him, failing to call you.”

“So what do you need?”

“Do you know another group I could hand him off to? Somewhere he can hide.”

Bobby considers. “Maybe. There's a bunch of guerilla type freedom fighters on Bocarro. I've got a contact with them. Not too far from you, and they sound pretty well organized. You might want to scope them out first, though. If he really does have info to justify the resources the Feds are putting into looking for him, he'd be a valuable prize. Someone might be tempted.”

Dean nods. “Sounds good. Can you set up a meeting?”

“Yeah. Might take me a day or so.”

“A rush job would be good,” Dean says. “The Feds are expecting me on Achilles in a couple of days.”

He chews his lip. “Bobby, do you know anything about Kethora?”

“Nothing special. Why?”

“I think – ” Dean hesitates. “I think Dad might have been there. And apparently, it's where this guy escaped from in the first place.”

Bobby blinks in surprise. “You heard from John?”

“I think so. And either it's a weird coincidence...”

“Or he was onto something.” Bobby's already turning away from the call, looking at another screen and typing. “I'll see what I can dig up. And I'll try and get you a meeting for this afternoon.”

“You're a miracle worker.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Dean brings the Impala down in a butterfly-light landing a couple of miles outside town.

“You ready?” he calls down. “We'll take the shuttle.”

“We?” Sam says, appearing. He looks better after his nap, though still a littel pale.

“I'm not gonna make you walk.”

“No, I mean, you're taking me?” Sam looks surprised that Dean's even willing to be in the same room with him.

To be fair, Dean is more than a little freaked out still, but he's not about to leave Sam here. “Of course.”

“What if there's a Fed? Maybe it'd be better for me to stay here.”

Dean snorts. “I'm not leaving my stowaway alone with my ship.”

Sam has the good grace to look abashed. “Uh, yeah. Makes sense. Um. Sorry.”

“Besides,” Dean says, “figured you might want a beer. If we're lucky, there might even be a pool table.”

The bar doesn't have a pool table.

They settle in at a corner table and order the local beer. It's only moderately terrible.

An hour later, they've polished off a bowl of surprisingly unterrible pretzels, and there's no sign of anyone taking any interest in them. Most of the patrons gave them the once-over when they walked in and have completely ignored them since, attention fixed on the screen over the bar that's showing women's zero-gee volleyball.

“Gotta take a leak,” Dean says, standing up. “Don't start any shit without me.”

He's zipping up when the shouting and crashing starts.

He bursts back into the bar and stops dead. Sam is in the middle of a group of attackers and he's –

He's moving like it's a dance, like it's effortless to take out three at once: right elbow to one guy's throat, left arm in a swinging arc that folds another one in half and flips him to the floor, a leg sweep that drops another on his back.

Punches, a chair, a broken bottle come at him all at once and he's somehow – not there, and his attackers are on the floor or staggering away. One of them comes spinning towards Dean and Dean reflexively knocks him out with an uppercut.

“Told you not to start without me!” he calls to Sam, wading into the fight, or what's left of it. Only a couple of tougher or dumber guys still coming, and the bartender's made himself scarce. They'd best finish up and clear out, he'll have called someone.

The last two guys hit the floor and Dean turns to Sam. “You can tell me what that was about later. Right now we – ”

Sam punches him.

“Fuck!” Dean gasps, staggering back, jaw throbbing. “The fuck was...”

He ducks sideways as the next punch brushes his ear. “Sam! What the hell, man?”

Sam closes the distance, swinging. Dean leaps behind a table, holds his hands up. “Hey! It's over! Calm down! _Sam!_ ”

Sam's eyes are flat, unrecognizing. It's like there's nobody home. He vaults the table effortlessly, and almost as an afterthought kicks a chair into the path Dean's taking to escape. Dean stumbles as it collides with his shins, and Sam is on him. He barely gets an arm up to block a spinning punch coming for his jaw, and gasps as another connects with his gut. He kicks out, but somehow misses Sam's freakishly long legs.

The back of his head knocks painfully against the wall as Sam crowds up against him, closing the distance and preventing Dean from getting a good swing. He tries anyway, jabbing for Sam's throat; Sam blocks, grabs his wrist and twists his arm up, locking it against the wall. Sam's other arm jams against Dean's neck, forcing Dean to struggle for air.

“Sam!” Dean shoves as hard as he can, tries to get a knee up. It's useless, Sam's got a better stance, legs braced and locked against Dean's. “It's me! Your ride out of here. Snap out of it!”

Sam's arm is pressing harder and harder against his throat. Sparkles start dancing in front of his vision as he struggles to suck in air.

“Sammy...”

The pressure abruptly lets up. Sam's eyes meet Dean's, shocked and confused, and his hands fall to his sides. Dean shoves Sam off him, gasping, rubbing his throat with one hand, the other balled up and ready. Sam's mouth is opening and closing, no sound coming out. He looks stunned.

 _Sammy..._ where the fuck had that come from?

“Sammy?” he says again, tentatively.

Sam's eyes roll back in his head and he falls to the floor.

Dean nudges him tentatively with his foot, then kneels and checks for a pulse, pulls back an eyelid. Sam's still breathing and his heart rate is slow and steady, but he's out cold.

He gets an arm under Sam, slings him over his back, and hauls him out of the bar and to the shuttle.

At least when the shuttle takes off, the blast of wind obliterates all the marks on the dusty ground. Anyone looking won't know for sure there were two sets of prints – or rather, one set of footprints, and the trails of Sam's heels dragging along the ground. Fucker was heavy, Dean wasn't about to carry him all that way.

 

 

 

He dumps Sam on the bunk. He'd briefly considered stashing him in the cargo compartment again, with a door that locks from the outside, but it seemed a little harsh.

He's not a complete idiot, though, so he ties Sam's wrists to the bedframe with some spare electrical wire.

He pulls the door shut behind him and peers through the tiny window in it as it latches with a loud clunk. Sam doesn't react. He hasn't shown any sign of coming around, though his eyeballs occasionally flicker behind closed lids.

Damn it. Time to call Bobby. Again.

He's a little surprised though, when he gets to the console, to see an urgent message flashing from Bobby. Maybe their missed contact had called Bobby to complain?

He hits play on the video message. It's not a video of Bobby.

It's – them. Sam. In the bar.

Bobby calls in before he's even finished watching it.

“Didn't think a dive like that would have a camera modern enough you could splice in,” Dean says by way of hello.

Bobby snorts. “I'd like to see the feed I couldn't hack.”

“Are you always spying on me?”

“Don't flatter yourself.” Bobby looks grim. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

Dean sighs. “I don't know what the hell happened. We were waiting for your guy to show. I stepped out for a minute and when I came back, Sam was tearing the place up. Then he came for me. Didn't seem to hear a word I said, and his eyes – it was like he wasn't even in there.” Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Then he just passed out. Dunno what the hell happened with that either.”

Bobby whistles softly. “Huh. Well. That fits.”

“Fits with what?”

“Kethora. Looks like your dad was onto something after all.”

“Not enjoying the suspense, Bobby,” Dean growls. “And you're paying for this call. Get on with it.”

“Sam's an experiment.”

Dean frowns. “Experiment? Like, what, genetic engineering?”

“Nah. Not before birth.” Bobby's looking away from the screen, flipping through sheets of paper scattered all over his desk. “The Feds picked up stray kids from all over. Stuck electrodes in their skulls. Gave them drugs and synthetic neurotransmitters to speed up their thinking. Implanted 'em with all kinds of programming. Things like fighting skills, languages, a photographic memory...”

“Super-soldiers,” Dean says.

Bobby shrugs. “Could call it that. But not grunts. They picked smart kids. Brains mattered more'n brawn to them.”

Dean thinks of Sam's 6'4” frame and snorts.

“Yeah, that could be it,” he says. “He couldn't tell me much about the place he escaped from. Said he thought he'd been there a long time, but hell, I never imagined he'd gone there as a kid. He doesn't remember a lot of things. They kind of fried his brain.”

He shivers at the thought of a tiny Sam, head shaved, being experimented on. “That's why they want him back so badly! He isn't carrying information. He _is_ the information. He's the thing they don't want made public.”

“You be careful, Dean,” Bobby says. “Those kids were meant to be secret weapons. Assassins. Sleeper agents. You might be right about him telling the truth, but just because he doesn't remember, doesn't mean he ain't still dangerous. You could be carting around a world of trouble.”

Dean snorts. “Nothing new there.”

“You could just turn him in.”

“Considered it,” Dean admits.

“But you're not going to.”

“Nope.”

Bobby sighs. “Your dad was a stubborn bastard too.”

Dean doesn't dignify that with a response.

“Okay,” Bobby says. “You better jump soon.”

“I did,” Dean says. “Twice so far. Not exactly new to this.”

“Keep going.” Bobby looks grim. “I'm sending you new coordinates. I found a guy who claims to know about the program. Might give you some insight into what you've gotten yourself into. But watch yourself. It sounds like he's got great sources – better than mine, even – but everyone says he's a real scumbag who'll betray you as soon as look at you. Keep an eye on the exits, and try not to get shot. Again.”

“It was just once. You ever going to let me forget it?”

“Nope,” Bobby says. “I got an interest in keeping you alive. Speaking of which, you better get down there and figure out what the hell you're carrying.”

 

 

Sam jolts wide awake from a dead sleep, sitting bolt upright and slamming his head into something.

His brain feels like it's swimming through molasses. _Is this another vision coming true? Didn't I see this before? No, that actually happened._ His pulse bangs loudly in his ears. He blinks, trying to get his bearings. This isn't the cargo compartment: there's light, and he's on a comfortable surface.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says.

He looks up.

The gun is familiar too. He stares at the muzzle.

“Dean?” he says in bewilderment. “What's happening?”

“Want to tell me what happened down there?”

Sam interrogates his memory. His memory is not forthcoming.

“We were – at the bar?”

Dean says nothing.

“There was – we were supposed to meet someone. You – ” Sam frowns. “Did you find them?”

A long pause. Sam furrows his brow, struggles to remember. The more he tries, the more his head throbs.

“Might have,” Dean says eventually. “If someone hadn't started a fight.”

“Ah, shit.” Sam exhales in sympathy. “And I got knocked out? Sorry, man. I guess I wasn't paying attention. My head is killing me.” He tries to reach up and rub his temples, and realizes his hands are tied.

“Uh,” he says, fear trickling down his spine. “Why am I – did something happen?”

 

“So that happened,” Dean says.

Sam can hardly breathe. He hunches his shoulders, wrists pulling against the bonds, and watches the screen as it starts playing again from the beginning: the grainy, dark security footage from the bar's lone camera.

He watches himself kick the shit out of at least twenty bar patrons, feet and fists flying. Dean steps onto the screen, Sam punches him, they crash out of view, there's a gurgling sound...

“Stop it,” he says, voice raw. “Please.”

Dean hits pause, sits back and just keeps looking at him.

“I don't know,” Sam says. “I don't know.”

“You don't remember any of it?”

Sam closes his eyes. “I really don't.”

“Huh.”

The silence grows, expands outward. Sam imagines it creeping through the ship. Passing through matter unobstructed, like neutrinos.

“You should ditch me,” he says, opening his eyes. “Next available stop. Or, don't even wait for a stop.”

“Over-reacting much?” Dean gives him a disbelieving look. “I'm not dumping you out the airlock.”

“I'm dangerous. Like they said.” Sam bites his lip. “They're chasing me for a reason. Guess we know what it is now.”

“They did this to you,” Dean says. “They _made_ you like this. That's probably what fucked up your brain so you can't remember shit. Those nightmares you have? The torture, the needles, the brain surgery – it was all real. You were in some kind of Federation research facility.” His fists clench as he continues. “You were there since you were a kid, and you finally broke out. And that had to be a pretty monumental risk, so I'm guessing that whatever you were running from was worse. I'm not gonna just hand you back over to them.”

“I could hurt you,” Sam says. “You don't know what I might – hell, _I_ don't know what I might do. I'm not risking that. Not again.”

“We'll figure it out,” Dean says, and unbelievably, he's moving to untie Sam's wrists. Sam flinches away, but nothing happens as Dean's fingers brush his skin. “Bobby knows a guy.”

 

 

Bobby's guy is the owner of a general store which is very transparently a front for a thriving trade in illegal weapons.

They're thoroughly searched on entry. Dean's used to being relieved of his gun, but it's not often someone finds the knife strapped to his side. Or the one in his boot. He's grudgingly impressed. They're deposited in a weapons locker and he's given a token.

“Mister Crowley will see you now.”

They're ushered into a back parlour that would have been the height of whorehouse fashion fifty years ago.

“Well,” Crowley says, making no move to get up from an overstuffed red velvet armchair. “If it isn't Sam and Dean Winchester. I wondered when you boys might show up.”

“Bobby thinks you might have some information,” Dean says.

“Oh, I do.” Crowley leers. “I've got information you don't even know you want. The question is, what are you willing to pay for it?”

“Shipping?” Dean offers. “An entrepreneur like yourself must have some far-flung business deals.”

“And reliable transport to go with them. I wouldn't trust my goods to your scow.”

Dean reminds himself they need this, and swallows down the insult to Baby. “I'll owe you a favour.”

“Ha! And what's that worth?” Crowley snorts. “Even if you had any skills of use to me, I don't give you very good odds against the Feds. It wouldn't be a good business risk to take a debt I can't collect on.”

“I wouldn't let Dean go into debt on my account anyway.” Sam speaks for the first time. “I don't have money. You must have known that, if your sources are as good as they say. So why agree to this meeting?”

Crowley laughs. “Oh, you are a clever one!” He crosses his legs, eyeing Sam as if he's a curious species of beetle. “Perhaps I just wanted to meet you both.”

“Or sell us out,” Dean growls.

Crowley lifts a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “That's always an unfortunate possibility, if you can't bring a decent offer to the table. Sometimes, you're outbid.”

He leers at Sam. “Sometimes, you aren't the buyer. You're the merchandise.”

Dean's heart sinks. Would Sam think Bobby had betrayed them? Or worse – that Dean had betrayed Sam?

He turns to Sam, in time to see Sam's eyes go dark and unfocused.

Dean lunges forward to grab Sam as his knees buckle. Sam's forehead drops against Dean's neck. His skin feels hot and dry. A tremor runs through him.

Crowley's leaning forward, watching eagerly.

“Lilith,” Sam whispers.

Crowley leaps to his feet as if stung.

Sam raises his chin. “She doesn't know, does she? That you set her up and left her to take the fall.” His voice is gaining strength. Dean doesn't have a clue what he's talking about, but clearly Crowley does.

“Get the hell out of my head!” Crowley's teeth are bared as he practically spits the words at Sam.

“Oh, I'm out,” Sam says. His voice is gaining strength. “I've seen all I need to see. I could tell her exactly what happened, and the details that'll make her believe it. And I know where to find her.” He pushes off Dean's shoulder and stands tall. “That's the deal _I'm_ offering. You tell us what we want to know, and I'll keep your secret. Or you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your short life.”

“Or I could just kill you both right now.”

Sam pulls his lips back into something that's only nominally a smile.

“You could try,” he says, and the ice in his tone sends shivers down Dean's spine.

“Nobody's killing anybody,” Dean says firmly. “You've got info we want, we've got info you'll pay us to shut up about, and Bobby's got a feed on us.” He's lying, but he's betting on Crowley wanting to believe – it'll give him a face-saving reason to back down from a likely-impossible fight. “Just tell us what you know, fast, and we'll be on our way.”

There's a long, tense pause, then Crowley sighs theatrically. “Well, you _have_ been creating some marvellous chaos. I'm in danger of the Feds forgetting all about me, with you to distract them. Suppose it'd be a shame to do their dirty work for them.”

He waves a hand at a sofa behind Sam and Dean. “Sit.”

He drops back onto his ridiculous velvet throne and makes a show of choosing an apple from a fruit bowl on a side table.

“Sam's been modified.”

“How?” Sam's hands are interlaced, squeezing so tightly the knuckles blanch.

“Hmmph. Where to start?” Crowley shrugs expansively. “Synaptic boosters. Neural growth factors. Reflex enhancement. Some very careful brain lesioning and stimulation, at critical points in development.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean doesn't bother to suppress his irritation. “He's been programmed to be a super soldier. Tell us something we don't know.”

Crowley purses his lips. Dean's fist balls up but he manages to refrain from punching Crowley right in that smug little smirk.

“From what I've heard – and this is getting so far up classified's arse you'd need a colonoscope to find it – little Sammy's special.”

“Special how?”

“All that messing with the brain – it can be a mite unpredictable.” Crowley tosses his apple from hand to hand. “Most of the kiddies came out more or less the same, but there's always the outliers. A few of 'em got turned into cucumbers along the way, and a few – ”

He spins the apple, eyeing Sam.

“A few came out with some interesting abilities.”

Dean glances over at Sam. His lips are pressed into a thin line.

“I've heard they got one that can move things with her mind.”

“That's impossible,” Dean says flatly.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh, because you know so much about neurobiology?”

“What else?” Sam's on the edge of his chair.

“And maybe one who has visions.” Crowley glares. “Maybe even one who can sneak and pry his way into other people's heads, and see things he isn't supposed to see.”

Sam's breath huffs out. “They're real.”

“You knew that,” Dean says, puzzled.

“Yeah.” Sam runs a hand through his overlong hair. “I mean, I did but – it's different having someone else believe it, you know? My mind's so screwed up, I couldn't trust what I knew. You said maybe it was just memories getting mixed up.”

“They're real,” Crowley says. “Your mind is a conduit. Past _and_ future. I'm told you exhibited some latent telepathic abilities too. I imagine you can see why the government is extremely interested in getting you back.”

“How does it work?” Dean asks.

“I'm an arms dealer, not a theoretical physicist.”

“What about the – ” Sam swallows. “The fighting? What happened to me?”

“You were triggered,” Crowley says. “They were trying to flush you out.”

“That was on purpose?” Dean exclaims, at the same time Sam says, “How?”

“They can activate him remotely,” Crowley explains. “Like, a song on the radio. Or a code phrase. Takes his brain offline and turns him into a killing machine. I don't know exactly what the trigger is.”

“Fuck,” Sam says, wide-eyed. It echoes Dean's sentiments perfectly. “They can do that?”

“And a hell of a lot more. You boys are in the big leagues now.” Crowley swings a leg over the arm of the chair and bites ostentatiously into his apple. “Indulge my curiosity, Dean. How did you manage to disable him?”

Dean stares at Sam. Sam stares back.

“I just said his name,” Dean says, slowly.

“You're shitting me.”

“I said his name,” Dean repeats. “And he passed out.”

Crowley snorts. “Forgive me if I think you're telling porkies. I'll buy that the off switch is an audio trigger, but I find it difficult to believe that the Feds are dumb enough that their overgrown super-secret assassin can be incapacitated by his _name._ ”

Dean shrugs. “Believe what you want. It's what happened.”

“Let's hope you're right,” Crowley says. “You'll probably need it again soon.”

“What?” Dean says, but it's already sinking in as Crowley talks.

“The big lug wasn't triggered by accident. I told you, that was done to flush him out.” Crowley smirks. “I saw it on the news. Video clips were circulating by the end of yesterday. They've given up hunting in secret. Your boy's officially Most Wanted.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes.

“They'll be right behind you,” Crowley says. “Speaking of which, get the hell out of my store. If I'm not getting paid for this, I'm not having the Feds poking around. Or Sam damaging anything. They'll try and activate him again, use him against you.”

Dean's already on his feet. Sam's right behind him.

“Good to see you two back together,” Crowley says, as he ushers them out. “Just like old times.”

Dean blinks. “What the hell are you – ”

Crowley laughs as the door slams in Dean's face.

“Hey!” Sam yells, pounding on it. “Jerk!”

“Fuck him,” Dean says. “Grab my gun and let's get out of here.”

 

 

Five jumps later, there's no sign of pursuers and Dean needs a break. He brings Baby gently into orbit beside an asteroid.

“Wake me up in four hours,” he instructs Sam, and crashes.

“Dude,” he mutters grumpily, when the banging on his door starts up. “That can't have been four hours.”

“I let you go six,” Sam admits, as Dean opens the door and flicks on the light. “There hasn't been anything on the screens, and I figured you needed the rest.”

“You weren't wrong,” Dean grudgingly agrees. “I still expect you to obey orders.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Sam says, in a tone that makes it clear he'd do exactly the same thing next time.

“Your turn to rest. Give me a moment to get a shirt.”

He turns and rummages in the clothes locker, finding one that's relatively clean, and pulls it over his head.

“So I was thinking...”

He breaks off. Sam's leaning against the doorframe as if it's needed to hold him up. His face has paled and his eyes are wide. Dean moves to grab his shoulder, then hesitates. Sam doesn't look like he's having a vision, at least in Dean's limited experience. Maybe he's about to hulk out.

“Who's that?” Sam says hoarsely.

Dean follows Sam's gaze to the small, worn, photograph stuck to the wall above the locker.

“That's my mom.” His throat is suddenly tight. “She died when I was very young. I don't remember much. Dad didn't like talking about her.”

“I've seen her,” Sam says, voice raw.

“What?” Dean doesn't follow.

“So many times. In my dreams. In a vision. She saved my life.”

“You saw – my mom?”

Sam takes a step into the room. He reaches out, and Dean's ashamed of his flinch, but Sam's touch is gentle. His fingers loop on the worn leather thong around Dean's neck, and fish the amulet out from under his shirt.

 _“Dean?”_ Sam says, in a wobbly voice, and Dean...

Dean's mind splits open, barriers crashing down.

He feels dizzy. He grabs onto the upper edge of the bed, remembering knocking on the door and scrambling into this room, climbing in with Dad after a bad dream, and –

Memories spill back in, a trickle and then a flood, breaking the dam in his mind that held them back all these years,

Mom and Dad both in here, Dean cuddled between them as she told stories

and Mom holding the baby brother that became the toddler that had followed Dean around with wide, adoring eyes

and Sammy's tiny, chubby fingers tugging on the amulet as Dean carried him when he got tired

and the screams and the fire, the night Mom and Sammy died

and hiding in the clothes locker as Dad raged impotently against the universe and glass smashed into a thousand shivering fragments

and the grief and the shame and the pain that would not be dulled

until one day it was.

“Sammy,” he chokes out. “I – remember.” Remember is the wrong word, it's a weak word, it doesn't encompass a half of the tidal wave Dean is drowning in. “I thought you were dead.” His vision is blurring with tears. “Back then, I mean. There was a fire. Mom died, and you were – you were gone. I thought you were dead. And I – how did I forget?” His voice cracks.

He forgot his little brother. Who was taken, and tortured, and used in a medical experiment.

“Brains are funny things,” Sam – his brother, his huge grown-up little brother Sam – says gently. Sam's arm is around his shoulder, nudging him towards the bed. He sits down heavily, feels the bed dip again as Sam sits next to him, warm against his side. “I should know. Trauma – it has a way of doing that. Your mind can't deal, so it walls it off. I forgot too.”

“Yeah, but you were a baby. I was older. I forgot you.” Dean can't wrap his mind around this. He thinks he may sit here forever, never move past this moment, a statue in time. “I abandoned you.”

“Hey,” Sam says fiercely. He takes Dean's chin in his hand, forces Dean to look at him. “Don't do this. You _saved_ me. Now, here. You were a kid then, it wasn't your fault. It was an accident. Maybe I ran away from the fire and got lost. Bobby told you the Feds picked up stray kids.”

“Dad didn't think it was an accident,” Dean says. “He blamed them. The Feds. I was never all that clear on the details. Like I said, he wouldn't talk about it. But he blamed them for it, the fire and her death.” He frowns. “Maybe they didn't just pick up homeless kids. You turned out to be one of their amazing ones. Maybe they targeted specific kids, and took them.”

“So her death was my fault.” Sam looks as stricken as Dean felt a minute ago.

“No!” It's Dean's turn to force Sam's gaze up to meet his. “Don't you ever say that. Don't you think it. It's _their_ fault.” He grits his teeth. “And I'm going to make them pay.”

“Right there with you.” Sam's eyes are fierce. “We need a plan.”

“I need coffee,” Dean says. “Kitchen. Let's go.”

They sit across from each other at the table, at once awkward and familiar. Dean's still settling his memories into place. God only knows what Sam's brain is doing.

“Dad figured it out.” Dean wraps his hands around the warm mug, cradles it. “He sent me a coded message directing me to Kethora. All the stories we chased over the years – he must have been looking for you.”

“And you never knew?” Sam's forehead is creased with a vertical line.

“He didn't talk about it. Any of it. Mom's death. You.” Dean shudders, and takes a deep gulp of hot liquid. “I bet he blamed himself. He drank a lot. He had a ton of crazy theories.” He considers. “Although, I guess some weren't so crazy.”

“Nah,” Sam demurs. “Just because it turned out to be true doesn't mean it's not crazy.”

“I wonder where he is now.”

Sam thumps down his mug. “Fuck. I bet he's there.”

“What?”

“Kethora. The facility.” Sam pushes back his hair. “Remember I told you I don't know how I managed it? The codes, the alarms – maybe I read the guards' minds. But Dean, I was a total mess back then. Even if I got the info, I don't think I could have pulled myself together enough to plan and execute an escape. I bet I had help.”

“Dad,” Dean breathes.

“He sacrificed himself to get me out.”

“We'll get him back,” Dean says firmly. He can't have Sam looking like that.

“How many do you suppose there are?”

“What?”

“How many kids?” Sam's eyes go distant. “How many families got destroyed?”

Dean doesn't have words equal to answer that. He reaches out and pats Sam's shoulder by way of reply.

“Let's rescue them.”

Dean blinks. “What? All of them?”

“Sure,” Sam says. “We'll need help getting Dad out anyway. Might as well recruit it on the inside.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Dean says, but he realizes the answer as he's speaking.

“Haven't you heard?” Sam flashes a brilliant smile. “I defy the laws of physics.”

It's insane. But he's never been one to run from a challenge. It'll undermine the Feds, make Sam happy, and maybe he'll finally find Dad and get an explanation.

_Keep flying._

“Why the hell not,” Dean says, and he's rewarded with dimples brighter than the sun.

 


End file.
